Yes, Professor?
by Inks Inc
Summary: CEO Grey becomes Professor Grey. Graduate Steele becomes Undergraduate Steele. The setting may change, but will the sparks remain the same? *Completed*
1. Chapter 1

The air of the second-rate lecture hall is stagnant as I throw myself behind my creaking desk. The start of a new academic year is upon me, my second one of my illustrious teaching career at Washington State University. Of course, I'm too young for the position but my name and my impressive acceleration of my own education landed me the job with relative ease. A twenty-five-year-old professor of Economics and Politics is certainly not the norm, but those with reservations tend to drop the shocked scepticism as soon as they talk to me. The fact that I'm no longer Christian Grey, but _Dr_ Christian Grey certainly helps.

Not that I care.

I hate the people I work with nearly as much as I hate the job itself.

Drumming the basics of the world into people only a few years my junior and seventy-five IQ points my inferior wasn't something I'd planned on for a living. The fresh-faced and eager freshman of the class of two thousand and twelve will be arriving any minute and the thought of their various incompetence is already boring me. I drum my fingers on the desk. The feeling is still there. The damning knowledge in the back of my mind that I've made an unbelievable fuck-up of my life. The calling of industry is back there too. The sprawling skyline of Washington is filled with captains of industry.

I should be one of them.

There is a gaping niche in the market for a driving force to exploit the green effort, amongst other things. Everywhere I look, I see opportunities to be mined and money to be made. But instead, week after week, I'm trying to explain market equilibrium to people that really should be majoring in something a little easier. Majoring in something that wouldn't require me to stare at their vacant expressions and smell the stench of the stale alcohol upon their uncleansed breath. I have no idea how I ended up here, a stifling career in academia, on a state salary. Moreover, I don't know how in the sweet fucking world I'm going to get through another year of this shit.

I really don't.

The last time I had broached the subject of getting out of the teaching profession and into the entrepreneurial arena, my mother had nearly aspirated on her smoked salmon entrée. They consider my foray into educating the mindless youth as a wonderful stabilising force in my life. If I'm turning up for the nine-to-five, I'm not out drinking all night, fighting my way through every bar in Seattle. If I'm busy throwing myself into the utterly pointless and utterly fruitless quest of educating the next generation of the capitols useless, I'm not free to traumatise the family any further by seeing and being seen with her.

With Elena.

I feel my lips twitch and my fingers drum louder. It's been five months since the sordid tsunami of mine and Elena's past rocked the foundations of the Trevelyan-Grey household. Screams had hollered down the fine hallways of the family mansion, an esteemed and respected medical doctor had thrown herself, claws out, at the woman that had deflowered her son. A usually charming and taciturn lawyer had to be physically restrained from calling every high-flying friend in the city, shouting about custodial sentences and disgusting paedophilia. Mia and Elliot had been too shocked to even verbalise whatever they were feeling, though to her credit, my little sister has a mean aim with a priceless crystal vase when she's provoked.

So, all-in-all, they're just thrilled with my inane occupation.

But I don't know how much longer I can care enough about that to stay in it.

The door of the lecture hall creaks open and I close my eyes in resignation. They're here. Well, one frightened looking kid with glasses bigger than his face is anyway. I don't spare him a welcoming word. He won't last long. This I know. Because I know people. I can read them. Which is why I know the big deal that Frasier, the CEO of the biggest energy whole-sale company on the West Coast, is never going to come through. He's being played. If he read the who's who of society weekly, he'd know that.

I know it.

But that doesn't matter, because I'm here, teaching Neanderthals.

The lecture hall is filling thick and fast now. The usual assortment of confidence and terror, wealth and poverty. I can't bring myself to look up at them until I absolutely have to. I don't have a lesson plan. I don't bother with such things. Conversation hangs in the air. Tentative meet and greets are happening. Eventually, I'm going to have to say something. Pretend I give a shit. Welcome them to the first day of the rest of their lives.

The usual bullshit.

Ten minutes pass and I'm already sick of the sound of my own voice. And I'm definitely already sick of the painstakingly familiar glances of sheer adoration from the simple-minded blonde girls in the front row and the downright alarming glances of lust from the biker trio of girls in the back row. I shake my head internally. They had no idea how misplaced their ardour was. They saw the pretty face, the unusual hair and eyes, the general aura of wealth that hangs over me and their adulations and affections grew monstrous.

Not knowing that I was the real monster.

Thirty minutes later and only the blonde ensemble in the front row are listening to a single word that is coming out of my mouth. About a five-minute improvement on last year's collective. Just as I'm about to move pointlessly on to the fundamentals of demand and supply, the door creaks open behind me. The disturbance lulls the semi-conscious out of their slumber and the hall turns to stare at the interruption. A late arrival. Joyous.

My immediate response of lazy anger turns to something…different.

My inner demons dance. I'm in a dry spell at the minute. Not of my own choosing. And this girl. This long legged, brown haired, brown eyed beauty is exactly the kind of girl that would cheer me up on a cold Seattle night. She's frenzied. Embarrassed. Her cheeks are scarlet. She bumps into the doorframe as she scrambles through it, like a deer in the headlights. Her arms are full of books. Advanced books. Jesus, she might even have a brain to boot. She's all of nineteen or twenty.

I raise a brow.

"This lecture began over half an hour ago, Miss…"

She glances over at me like a rat in a trap.

"Steele," she practically whispers, clearly dazzled by my disgusting beauty. "Anastasia Steele."

I stand there, enjoying her obvious discomfort, drinking it in. Visions flood my brain. The things I could do to her. The sounds I could draw from her. The delicate shades of red I could paint across her delightfully pale skin. Her pupils have dilated, her breathing rate has changed, the general betrayal of arousal. I feel my mouth water before the mindfucking realisation sets in.

I am this girl's professor.

She is my student.

She is off limits.

My inner demons snarl and furl up in an angry ball of red. They're not used to being denied. I generally snare any woman I want, wherever I want, whenever I want. But not within the confines of these halls. Not within the boundaries of my ill-chosen and unwanted profession. I sigh and cast an admittedly supercilious hand towards the myriad of vacant seats in the high-rise lecture bleachers.

"Well, a belated welcome, Miss Steele," I murmur sarcastically, "Your fashionably late entrance has been duly noted. Perhaps you would like to refrain from disturbing my lecture any further and take a seat?"

Sue me.

I get snarky as fuck when a perfect piece of prey is on the no-fly list.

I watch her subtly as she flushes puce and stumbles to take a seat in the middle of the hall, a kindly girl moving her bag to allow her easier entrance. My voice fills the room once more, my gaze roves around in equal measure, but she's always in the corner of my eye. The more I stare with subversion at her bent over brunette head, as she diligently writes down my every word, the more my desire increases.

Jesus Christ, what a waste of the education I could _really_ give her.

I drone on and on, boring myself, willing the end of this infernal hour to come as swiftly as possible. Eventually that glorious moment arrives and I dismiss those who are still awake with a crisp farewell and throw myself back behind my desk, wondering is it too early to add some whiskey to my coffee.

It probably is.

I definitely don't care.

I'm lost to my thoughts by the time the lecture hall completely empties. All save for one. I sense her presence before I see it, lifting my head slowly from my new and depressing timetable. She's nervous. Flushed. Jittery. All things I enjoy. I take a second to memorise the slender curve of her hips and the doe-eyed quality of her trembling gaze.

She's stunning.

And different.

Differently stunning.

"What can I do for you, Miss Steele?"

She blushes even harder at the sound my voice and I'm very glad for the cover of my desk to hide the hardening bulge in my pants. She's not sophisticated like the girls I usually go for. She doesn't move with grace, clearly hasn't come from money and obviously has no idea of her cosmetic good fortune.

"I would just like to apologise for interrupting," she mumbles, "I got lost."

I look at her fully in the face and curse my pathetic job to the depths of hell.

Professional. I have to be professional. Fuck fucking sake.

"That's quite all right," I say quietly, managing a spastic attempt at a smile, "These things happen to all freshmen. You'll find your way in no time, Miss Steele. You all do."

She stares at me like she's never seen anything quite like me.

The bounds of my professionalism are being tested the longer I'm alone with her. She needs to go. I need to go. One of us needs to go. It's easier if it's me. I rise and sling my bag over my shoulder and nod at her brusquely, just like any faculty member would do and make for the door. I feel the pull of her dragging me back the faster I walk.

There's something about her. Something more than something.

I can't breathe until I'm out in the courtyard.

The cool air hampers my libido and I drink it in. Students mill around me, taking no notice of me, I look like one of them. The images of her and all the varied and wonderfully perverse things I could do to her refuse to leave my brain, clinging to my grey matter like octopus tendrils. I scrub a hand over my eyes, cursing my dry spell. Vanessa and I parted ways five weeks ago and it's been all Sahara and suburbia since then. My phone is in my hands before I know it, and my fingers are dialling before I can stop them. I had faithfully and dutifully promised my parents and siblings that I would never, ever speak with her again.

But sometimes, needs are needs, and those needs need satiating.

She answers on the fourth ring.

As she always does.

"Christian. This _is_ a surprise. It's been a while. Are you sure it's safe?"

I spare her the pleasantries.

She isn't surprised.

"Elena. I need your help. I need someone. Someone more long-term. And I need that someone tonight, at the apartment, at nine pm sharp. Can you do that and keep it to yourself or do I need to make alternative provisions?"

Her laugher is not unexpected.

"I'm glad to see that your parents lack of understanding hasn't altered the path that suits you best, Christian. I know the perfect girl. She'll suit you like a tailored suit. She'll see you at nine."

As she hangs up, I see Miss Steele crossing the courtyard and a sense of emptiness plagues me.

This girl, Elena's girl, might be the most appropriate girl in the world.

But as I lean against the wall and watch her long mahogany hair flow out behind her in the wind, I know she won't be enough. She'll distract me for a while, sure, but she won't be the girl with the doe-eyes and the something more than something.

I close my eyes.

I really, really hate my fucking job.

…..

TBC

A/N: This story is unrelated to any of my ongoing FSOG stories, they'll be updated soon! Inks x

…..


	2. Chapter 2

My head is screaming. The sun is too bright and the hour is too early, but all in all, today is an improvement on yesterday. Last night with…Claire? Carrie? Cadie? Whatever. Last night was good. Not the best I've ever had, but good nonetheless. Elena's girl was experienced and had a respectable pain threshold. A natural, too. Always a bonus. My inner demons are sleeping now. The slumber won't last for long though. In fact, the need is even stronger after a brief feed. A revitalised rebellion against the civilised façade.

I drank way too fucking much after…Cassie? Clara? Whatever. After she left.

The perks of being me include private accommodations on campus. I have another thirty-three minutes before I have to drag my miserable ass back to another soul-destroying lecture hall. I've managed to shower, my hair will just have to dry whatever way it wants, and I have my legs encased in subtly expensive jeans and my torso in my trademark navy blue pullover. As mornings go in this shitstorm of a career, I'm making pretty decent progress. The phone rings as I stare into my third coffee and I can't quite help the wince when I see Elena's name pop up.

It's entirely too early for her.

The call rings off and a voicemail alert slides in.

I ignore it for now. She wants a performance review on…Cindy? Connie? Whatever.

It'll wait.

But the new and aspiring commercial generation wont. My time is up. It's probably dramatic to compare my walk across the courtyard to a condemned man's walk to the gallows… but I'm going to compare my walk across the courtyard to a condemned man's walk to the gallows. I drink in the freezing cold air as I stride along, giving the impression that I'm confident and purposeful about where I'm going.

I'm a pretty convincing actor.

Elena calls again. I roll my eyes down at my cell. During our brief hiatus, I'd conveniently forgotten how overbearing she can be. Flicking it on silent, I throw it back in my pocket and entering the drudgery of my allotted lecture hall, I throw myself behind the pristine desk on the pompously raised dais. The class I'm so eagerly expecting contains the captivating Miss Steele. The only highlight of what is sure to be a day full of grey. Soon, all too soon, the room begins to fill with bodies and chatter. Mindless chatter from mindless bodies. Wonderful. I ignore them all as they file in, keeping a sharply subtle eye out for _her._

I can't touch, I know that, but I can look.

She's one of the last ones in, again. But this time she's flanked by three or four laughing girls. She's laughing too. My French toast does a strange sort of exercise in my stomach. She's downright ravishing when she laughs. They walk past me, I wait for her to glance at me, watching for it out of the corner of me eye. But she doesn't. I frown. Heavily. She walks right past me with her new-found group and spares me not a single rove of her eyes.

Well that's new.

More than slightly wrong footed, I realise they're staring at me and waiting for words to come out of my mouth. Stifling a scowl as I see her in the fifth row, lazily ignoring my very existence, I start the lecture. Walking up and down the dais, wasting both my cardio intake and voice in the process, I hum and haw about the theory of elasticity. I keep her in the peripherals of my vision. She's paying attention, but not rapt attention. She's glancing up and down, but only out of habit. Her eyes don't fixate on me the way the same three blonde girls' from yesterday in the front row do. She and her friends don't giggle about some private observation of my physique the way the blonde girls do and she almost certainly dozes off here and there, jolting awake intermittently, unlike the three blonde girls.

What the fuck?

Is this the same jittery, stutter for Christian Grey girl that I met yesterday?

The sleepily stirring demon inside me says yes. Yes, it is.

I'm annoyed by the growing annoyance that plagues me as I hammer on and on, boring myself, waiting once again for the hour to finish itself off. Mercifully, it comes sooner than it usually does and I dismiss the semi-conscious masses with an admittedly abrupt parting comment and stalk moodily, albeit artistically, back to my desk. They trickle out, some waking up, some somehow managing to fall even more deeply asleep. They earn my ire, with their breathing and their being. I scowl down at my timetable, trying hopelessly to brace myself for the next cohort of the hopeful leading the hopeless.

Her group is the last to leave, chattering animatedly amongst themselves.

I don't know what comes over me.

I do, I do know, I just can't control it.

"Miss Steele? A moment of your time?"

She glances back at me, mid-grin, as if I'm some kind of fucking afterthought and bids adieu to her equally unimpressed and unaffected friends. I feel my eyes widen at the complete and utter lack of an effect I seem to be having on her. I have an effect on every woman I meet. I'm _Christian Grey._ She slings her bag over her shoulder, oozing a nonchalance that nearly has my draw dropping, and strolls over to my desk.

No blush. No falling, no muttering, no flickering gaze.

Just a calmly, if quizzically, confident smile.

"Professor Grey?" she offers softly, when I merely stare like some kind of drug-addled imbecile. "You wanted to speak with me?"

My eyes blink of their own accord.

Shit.

Think, Grey, think.

"Yes," I hear myself say calmly, racking her poise to sense knocking knees, a reaction, any reaction. There is none. I swallow. "Yes, I wanted to ask you if you were planning on signing up for the inter-collegiate EcoPol debate series next semester? I appreciate that it is very early days, but I'm responsible for putting the team together and I'm just trying to ascertain any possible candidates."

Jesus H Christ there is no EcoPol debate series.

What is this utter shit that is coming out of my mouth?

Please say no, please say no, _please say no._

She smiles a smile that results in a strange abdominal sensation within me. It's not all together unpleasant, but it's certainly an unknown. She licks her lips and I cross my legs immediately. I don't need to be sued for sexual harassment. She nods. How can someone be so fucking attractive simply by moving their damned head up and down? Man…the things she could do with that mouth, with that head…

Focus Grey, focus.

"Sure, Professor. I'd love to. I'm actually looking to bulk up my extracurriculars."

I know how I'd like to bulk her up-

 _Focus, Grey._

"Excellent," I clip out, trying painfully to regain control over the situation. "I will inform you when the particulars of the series are released. I suspect it won't be for some time, but it's good to know that you're interested." I glance at the door, suddenly desperate to put some space between me and this fucking alien power of a girl. "That will be all, Miss Steele."

She nods with all the confidence of a gold-medal Olympian, smiles an easy smile and nods.

"Thank you, Professor."

I don't even have the ability to throw together something suitably supercilious as she takes her leave, walking with a grace that she sure as shit did _not_ possess yesterday. I stare at her retreating back, confusion burning me, not understanding the total transformation from delicate, trembling little flower to grinning, confident young woman. People don't just change like that overnight. I know people, and people don't do that.

And then it hits me.

Like a freight truck.

"Miss Steele?"

She turns once again, utterly serene and unperturbed, and flashes me an almost lazy and not-quite-there smile.

"Professor?"

I study her intently. My eyes bore in hers. I conduct a sweeping assessment and affirm my slow but still there intuition. I feel my head shake and my hand sweep towards the door.

"My mistake. It's slipped my mind. Thank you for your time."

She grins at me and nods, slipping out the door without a backwards glance. I stare unseeingly after her. I'm not sure how I feel about the explanation that had been staring me straight in the face. I've been there more than enough to know without question or equivocation that I'm righter than right. I swallow. I swallow deeply. I have my answer.

High.

She's high.

…

TBC

…..


	3. Chapter 3

She wasn't demure and flustered the first day I met her.

She was coming down from a high. I know. Because I've been there. And that kind of down can only come from one kind of high. A consistent kind of high. I stare at the door as if it's going to bring her back, give me more answers. Namely, why I give a shit. A college kid being stoned isn't exactly ground-breaking news. I've had more baked imbeciles in my class than I can count. But somehow, someway…with her, I'm personally offended.

As if she owes me something.

Eventually, the realisation that I'm late for my next class sets in. I don't rush. I let them wait. Strolling through the hallways, my mind is full to the brim of Anastasia Steele and the drugs within. Yesterday, she was red-faced and friendless. Today, she's composed and befriended. The girl moves fast. I feel my lips twitch. I wonder does the fact she's not the angelic brunette princess I thought she was make her any less desirable to me. I confuse myself. I like women who like to please me, but I don't like people-pleasers. I like women who bend to my will, but I don't like spineless people. I like women who know how to follow my rules, but I don't like mindless people.

Jesus Christ. Why can't I be a normal guy who likes a normal girl?

My mother would be thrilled.

I do have a _strict_ no-drugs policy these days. Even soft drugs like the weed she's currently flying high upon. If she were mine and turned up at my door in that state, it would be the first and last time. Yet her apparent wild side is intriguing me. She's plaguing my fucking mind. Why can't she have red hair or something? Why does she have to pale-skinned and brown-haired? Why does she have to be _my_ kind of girl?

Why does she have to my kind of girl, that I can't have, and be high as a kite?

Strolling into my next lecture, I wander through the motions without hearing myself talk. All I can hear are my own thoughts. Where is she now? Who is she with? What is she doing and taking? I shake my head. I shouldn't give a flying fuck. She's off limits and that's that. I'll just have Elena send…whatever her name is back over tonight and that'll take my mind off her until her shine wears off. My demons snigger in their cage.

They don't think it'll work.

But I'm Christian Grey. I don't _do_ infatuation and I don't do lost causes. She's quite clearly both. As much as I hate my job, I can't really afford to be canned for inappropriate relations with a student. My mind throws back up the image of her dilated pupils and her not-quite-thereness and I know those relations would be inappropriate as fuck. I would quite literally skin her alive. Jeopardising her health and academic career by turning up to a nine-a.m. class higher than the Eiffel Tower?

She'd never sit again.

I smirk as I envisage the scandal breaking in the local rag.

 _"_ _WSU Professor brings back Corporal Punishment in the classroom."_

If fucking only.

This hour passes quicker than the first, my mind having more scintillating fodder than the composition of the U.S. Senate. I have next period free. I can brood in the comfort of my own office, in front of my own computer, which is ever so conveniently loaded with my very own student database. I don't think I've ever used it before. I've never cared before. But I care now. I drum my fingers in agitation as the pre-historic machine splutters into life, glaring at me as I dare insist it get up off its lazy CPU ass.

Five minutes later, and Anastasia Steele takes to the big screen.

My eyes read greedily. She's twenty. Must've taken a year or two off to find herself after High School or some other such nonsense. Three point eight GPA. Not bad. She's not a Seattle native, her alma matter being out of town. Strong and boring extra-curriculars. Nothing particularly noteworthy. I screenshot her class schedule like the pervert I am and send it to my cell. Accidentally, and I mean accidentally, I glance at her home address.

She lives on-campus.

How cute.

I quickly close off her details when I've digested all there is to digest. It's probably frowned upon to pry into the personal lives of one's charges. But what the hell. Leaning back in my chair that squeaks, I try and forget about her. I fail. No girl has ever had this kind of hold on me. More to the point, no girl is immune to the kind of hold I can wield over them. And yet, she was unmoved by my closeness today. She didn't flush or fidget. Stutter or stammer. She regarded me like I was some middle-aged bald fucker with a beer gut and a best friend that enjoys coming fishing with me.

As much as it disgusts me, I know I'm pretty damned beautiful.

And she strolled out the door without a backwards glance like I'm a two out of ten.

I'm a ten out of ten.

On the outside at least. On the inside, I'm disgusting. That's true. The rest of the day passes in a boring blur. Walking back home, the street lights are beginning to flicker on. Autumn is here. Elena calls. I ignore it. I've decided I'm not really in the mood for any company she can send over tonight. My heart's not in it. So to speak. I stare at the mumbling television disinterestedly. My head is somewhere else.

On someone else.

I glance at the clock. It's suddenly nine-thirty.

The cold pizza on my lap has been congealing for two hours.

Fuck it. I'm on my feet before I can talk myself out of it. Shrugging into my tailored coat, I'm out the door. This is weird. I'm being weird. Weirder than weird. But I don't really care. She's been rattling around my skull since the moment I laid eyes on her and if I don't get her out, she's going to do permanent damage. My demons roll around the floor of their cage with laughter. This is something that an annoying guy called Nate does for an equally insipid girl called Sara without the _h_ in those generic after-school specials.

Lord have mercy on my pathetic soul.

Five minutes later, the benefit of on-campus living, and I'm knocking on her door. I stand on the other side of it, a fully grown pervert knocking on the college girl's door in the middle of the night and wait. What I'm going to say if and when she opens the damned thing, I don't know. I'm sure I'll think of something. But I can't wait until Friday to see her. She's not on my schedule till then, and I just can't wait.

I'm used to making myself sick but this is beyond a joke.

Sixty-three seconds later and the door cracks open. My nose shrivels in distaste. Is she growing the shitting stuff in there? My eyes focus. She's staring at me, or in my general direction, I can't really tell. She looks quizzical anyway. _Of course she looks quizzical Grey you fucking moron, you're standing at her door with your mouth shut and your dick in your hand._ I clear my throat and beg for divine inspiration.

It doesn't come.

She peers at me.

"Professor Black? Are you ok? Do you need something?"

My eyes bulge in offence. Regardless of the weed smog that's wafting out her door, there are some things that just aren't ok. Vaguely, I realise the girls she was in class with today are in the dorm room as well. Music plays in the background as they shriek with laughter, seeing me but ignoring me. Are these girls actually female humans?

Female humans don't see me and then ignore me.

They just don't.

"It's Grey," I eventually manage to utter, with just the right amount of ice.

She stares.

"What's grey?"

Maybe she's an idiot. Maybe that's what it is.

"My name," I say stiffly, "My name is Professor Grey, not black."

She giggles then, her hand flying up to the mouth to stifle the laughter. The other girls hear her mirth and skip over to the door. One of them must have opened a window and thrown out their joints. What do they think I am, an RA? Christ this was a bad idea. The four of them stand there, looking at me, giggling. What are they giggling about? Is it a _just because I'm high_ giggle or are they giggling at me?

I need a new job.

Tomorrow, I'm going to start looking for a new job.

"Ok, Professor Grey," Anastasia laughs easily, "Is there something you need?"

You. On your knees. My belt. On your ass. Your mouth on my-

"I was just wondering if you and your friends would definitely like to sign-up for that EcoPol debate I was telling you about. The cut-off date is far sooner than I realised and the first competition is only five weeks from today's date so I need to get a team together just as soon as possible."

The ease of my mistruth shocks even me.

They all stare at me blankly.

"Uhm…did I see you today, Professor?"

 _Did she see me today?_ She's genuinely asking me. She genuinely doesn't even remember talking to me. On a one-one-basis. No girl forgets talking to me on a one-on-one basis. Not even whilst under the influence. She's killing me. This has never, ever happened to me before. Girls tremble at the knees for me. They chase me. This…this is new.

And decidedly unpleasant.

Before I can even think of an answer to the snub, another of them pipes up.

"Professor, do you play golf with my dad? I think I know you from the photos."

I don't know this person's father, why would I play-

"Girl, your dad is _not_ that old!"

Splutters of laugher ensue and the girl of the young father nods in agreement.

"True."

Maybe I'm the one on the drugs. Perhaps that's it. That would explain this shitstorm of madness. I run my hand through my hair. Nothing. I wait. Nope. No swooning, no glazed glances. _Nothing._ Is this what it feels like to be a two out of ten? My non-existent heart suddenly bleeds for the two out of tens of this world. Anastasia laughs with a shrug.

"Whatever. Sure, we'll join up to the uhh… thing. We need food for our resumes."

I stare.

There is no thing, but still, you'd think she'd be more interested in the thing.

The rest of the crew shrug with disinterest, their attention wavering. Awkward. For the first time in my life, I'm feeling awkward. I have lots and lots of negative emotions and the like, but awkward is a new one. It really is. Especially with women. I need to retreat. I need to retreat and lick my wounds with a bottle of scotch. But I need to retreat with dignity. Like I won. Not like I was regarded as a boring old man by people only four or five years my junior.

I cough.

"Excellent, I will email you all the particulars. I assume the university has your details on file. I apologise for the intrusion on your night. I was working late when I realised I needed to finalise a grouping by this evening to begin preparations and the phone is out in my office. Thank you for your time, ladies. You will be hearing from me in due course. This is an excellent opportunity for you to hone your public speaking skills. Goodnight to you all."

They're looking at their phones and give me a sort of collective nod in dismissal.

I've been dismissed.

Me.

Christian Grey.

By a bunch of college girls, flanking the object of my desire, like I'm nothing.

I turn on my heel nonchalantly, as if I were just passing by, and head down the corridor. They close the door slowly, not having the cognitive function between the lot of them to move quickly. I catch the last snippet of their conversation and feel, if possible, even more like a two out of ten. Fuck it, I might as well call a spade and spade and renumber myself as a one of ten. The saddest of the sad.

"Girls, wasn't Professor Brown just the weirdest? He's like, Bundy or something."

….

TBC

…...


	4. Chapter 4

My high level of tolerance for potent alcohol is becoming a royal pain in the ass. I need to get as blindly drunk as quickly as possible to numb out the unprecedented fall from grace I've just suffered. My classical good looks make me sick, that is true, but they usually have an overwhelmingly positive effect on those of the female persuasion. I don't have to chase, I don't have to dance. They come to me. Like bees to a honey pot. But apparently not Anastasia Steele and company.

Because they seem to think I am some class of perverted geriatric.

It's outrageous.

And what's even more outrageous is that I am genuinely aggrieved that a pot smoking, girl-gang touting college student has managed to ensnare my attentions like this. The scotch burns as I throw down another glassful and it's finally having some sort of an impact. The edges of my mind are becoming pleasantly blurred and the shadows of my apartment are melting into nothingness as my eyes begin to close. Perhaps I can convince myself that my foray into the land of the average man was just an awfully vivid dream. Not like my usual nightmares, no, I wouldn't wish that on even me. But just a state of subconscious discomfort. That's all I'm asking.

When I wake the next morning there's discomfort alright.

But it's in the form of a rather magnificent hangover.

I groan. My breath congeals in my mouth like sour milk. It makes me gag. The armchair I slept in is mercifully close to the bathroom and the awaiting toilet accepts the contents of my stomach with good grace and little judgement. It's eight-fifteen and I'm late as hell. The shower burns and is brief. My hair will just have to do what it likes and a mismatch assortment of jeans and a pullover Mia insisted brought out the colour of my eyes will have to suffice. I do take the time to scrub my teeth though. Not even the most mundane of students deserves to suffer the morning after the night before breath.

I glance at my schedule as I stride across the courtyard.

Safe, at least, in the knowledge that Miss Steele isn't under my tutelage today. Bursting into the lecture hall with one a half minutes to spare, the masses are already assembled and semi-conscious. They barely notice my entrance and reluctantly pull their attentions away from their cells as I begin to bore even myself with the shit that comes out of my mouth. Just as I'm finally shaking off the late start cobwebs, I glance up from my dry notes and feel either a small yacht or a very large dingy boat crash into the sea of sickness in my stomach.

Anastasia Steele.

Back row.

Fifth seat in from the right, alert and bright-eyed.

Sweet baby Jesus.

Why? Why is this happening? I pretend not to notice her but the back of my neck is reddening. An annoying tell that I developed in early childhood that betrayed my discomfort. What is she doing in this class? She's not _taking_ this class. Was she sent here to torture me? Is she my karma for all the depraved and debased shit I get up to behind closed doors? Or is she just a stoned simpleton that doesn't even know she's in the wrong class?

All are equal possibilities.

I carry on the class without ever looking up at the back row again. She drives me mad. Madder than mad. I desperately want to examine her to see is she baked or bearing the evidence of last night's binge, but I can't risk staring at her. A not so unusual anger trundles through me. She's pissing away her time. High, in the wrong class, in the wrong company. If she were mine…

She isn't.

She isn't mine.

For the sake of sanity, I must mutter that mantra to myself repeatedly. You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved, Grey. She's a college kid. That's what they do. That's what you did. Let her be. Let her find a nice vanilla boy called Dan or Jake who can take her out for pizza and a movie. All that normal shit that you're incapable of. Stay away. Think about your job and your next move. Think about the things you could be doing with a glowing recommendation from WSU.

Think of anything and everything except Anastasia fucking Steele.

I manage to get through the hour that I thought would be peaceable. It wasn't. But at least it's over. This time, instead of waiting around to steal a moment alone with her, I bolt for the door with the exiting masses and try to avoid her entirely. My plan is scuppered. Her voice carries above the humdrum of the next generation and their eyes flicker to my face in confusion when I pretend not to hear her. She calls my name again. Fuck. How can she make me feel the way I feel just by saying my _name?_ I know why. Because my name is a title and a title means authority and authority over that little madam is everything I want and cannot have.

I can no longer pretend not to hear without arousing suspicion.

I turn slowly as the door bangs shut behind the last of my useless students and raise a brow in her direction, acting as if I had never spotted her in the back row. I act like I don't know that she shouldn't be here. What kind of normal Professor knows whether one of a hundred or more students in front of him should be there or not? I play dumb. Dumber than dumb. All the while praying with my twitching penis to play dead. Deader than dead.

"Miss Steele, isn't it? Is there something I can do for you?"

 _Miss Steele, isn't it?_

Sure shit Grey, she'll never pick up on that Oscar-winning moment.

Jesus Christ.

She smiles a slow smile. She is fucking beautiful. Not in the kind of pristine, made-up way I'm used to. No, she's stunning in a natural _, she doesn't even know how good looking she is_ sort of way. I communicate firmly with my hardening cock. He knows when there's something worth waking up for around and I need to persuade him to take one for the team.

"Yes, it is. I was just wondering what the guidelines were for the EcoPol debate? The girls and I never received an email about it. I'm just anxious to be prepared."

Horror shuts down my trembling member as my lies are exposed.

I open my mouth, waiting for a stroke of brilliance to descend, praying for a series of intricate and inter-collegiate rules to flutter into my brain. I narrow my eyes as I suddenly spy laughter in hers. She takes a step closer to me and I take an automatic step back. The mirth in those blue pools of fucking gorgeousness deepens and I know for sure that she's laughing at me. What the hell? I'm suddenly very aware that I am very alone with this girl.

Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper.

"There is no EcoPol debate, is there Professor Grey? You just made the entire thing up to get closer to me. You fabricated the entire competition for the chance to get inside my panties. Even though you know you shouldn't lust after a student under your care. Even though you know that our entire and short association has been completely unprofessional."

My heart stops.

My face pales.

All manner of anatomical abnormalities are occurring within me.

I'm fucked.

But then I remember, I am _Christian Grey._ Esteemed Professor. Youngest ever at WSU. Academic background that would make men three times my age weep and a dominant personality that would make this little girl beg for mercy. I just have to brazen it out. Profess outrage. Threaten sanctions and disciplinary measures for her outrageous words.

Offer her informal discipline back at my place…

Fuck's sake Grey, get with the program.

But she beats me to it. Withdrawing a pad of pink post-its from her bag, she produces a pen with a flourish. I watch her in silent shock as she scribbles furiously before ripping the sticky note off and handing it out to me with a look of serene expectation on her beautifully proportioned face. I take it automatically and glance down at it. It's a number. Most probably her number. My confusion and arousal soar upwards together like a pair of very confused doves being released at one of those ghastly weddings.

"That's my number," she clarifies, "It's not on my file, in case you were wondering."

Shit.

Shit shit _shit._

She knows.

Beauty and brains. A potent mixture. Not one I am accustomed to.

"I like to keep this private, because I don't want people to treat me differently. But my step-father is the Dean at this fine academic establishment and for all intents and purposes, your boss. Now, call me old-fashioned, but I don't think he's going to approve of a member of his staff trying to get into his little girl's underwear. I think he would be positively furious to learn that the wonderful and dynamic Professor Grey whom he always drones on and _on_ about, abused his position. Used his authority to gain access to records he had no business accessing and turned up at vulnerable young lady's dorm room at an unreasonable hour, using her desire to succeed academically to gain entry."

I feel myself beginning to hyperventilate, but she's not done.

"So, it seems to me that you have a problem, Professor Grey. You have a leak. A hole that needs plugging, if you will. I have a reputation to maintain and so I couldn't speak freely in front of the girls. Here's the thing, I am not averse to a little…shall we say, one-on-one tuition to make up for this egregious breach of trust. I'd like to ace your classes whilst refraining from becoming dull and I think a little personal attention from you would be just the right way to do it."

She takes a step towards the door as my mouth falls open and _winks._

 _She fucking winks._

"I'm free most Monday and Wednesday nights. I hope you'll find some time in your calendar for me. I had a near perfect High School GPA and I'd like to continue that tradition here at WSU, if not improve it. You seem like a great teacher. It'd be foolish not to press your abilities to their fullest extent, don't you think?"

She gives me one last grin and then skips off towards the door like we'd just been shooting the breeze about the weather. I pivot and watch her go like a fucking gormless orangutan and struggle to connect my neurons to my vocal chords. This girl knows. She _knows._ But how much does she know? She seemingly knows enough to end me with one flick of her step-daddy's pen. If he really is her step-dad and he really is the Dean here. Somehow, I can't quite pair the kindly, blading man that was Dean Gerard with this spitfire of a girl. Her hand rests on the doorknob for a moment, before she twists her head back with her hair flowing this way and that, grinning yet another grin.

"Don't worry though. It'll be easy. I'm a very good student when I have the right… motivation."

She opens the door and looks at me with a look that stills my hammering heart.

"I'll await your call then."

Her eyes flash and her mouth twists around one more word before she's gone and all but the door is left in her stead.

"Sir."

…..

TBC

A/N: Because my other three FSOG stories are quite serious etc, this one is designed to be light-hearted, smutty and free from angst. Ana is no shirking violet in this story, be warned!

Inks x

….


	5. Chapter 5

Holy fucking shit.

I've had my world rocked by women before. But never like this. I feel exposed. I might as well be balls naked. I may as well be start streaking naked and ice skating in Central Park in the winter. That's how unprotected I am. That's how tenuous this position is. I am Christian Grey. Respected Ivy league graduate, impressive Professor and the well-bred son of Carrick and Grace Trevelyan-Grey.

It cannot be known that my hobbies include more than a Sunday round of golf.

It cannot be known that I prefer to strike a thick ass than a smooth ball.

I'm about to get as hyperventilative as fuck. How does she know? How could she _possibly_ know? I don't go around with a riding crop in my hands. Much as I'd like to. I don't shoot the breeze with any regular Joe about the best rope knotting techniques. Much as I'd like to. And I sure as shit don't fuck and flog anyone that doesn't know not to open their mouths about being fucked and flogged by me.

So how does she know?

And how can I possibly be rock fucking hard right now?

I'm about to be impeached from my cushiony life. WSU may not be an Ivy, but it sure as shit isn't going to want a pervert on their staff. Not that I consider myself a pervert. I'm much sicker than that. But to the layman, it's a pretty reasonable term. Oh, and to cast iron that shit, apparently Miss Steele's stepfather is the Dean. How wonderful. How perfectly karmic. The door suddenly bursts open and a stream of chattering students swarm my thinktank.

And I'm stood in the entranceway with a piston in my pants.

I'd like to wake up now.

I bolt from the room with as much dignity as I can muster. They don't pay me any attention. I look like one of them. The art of assimilation. The first breath of fresh air in the courtyard is like the elixir of the fucking gods. I drink it in. Try and wash away the permanent and non-washable. Miss Anastasia Steele, I decide, is either a psychic from some sort of undiscovered land or she knows people. She knows the kind of people I know.

She is the kind of person I am.

My jeans are beginning to crease against the strain of my pulsating cock and I need a little privacy. My briefcase serves many purposes as it carries my papers for grading and covers my flagpole. My on-campus apartment has never been more majestic. Slamming the door shut and making sure Anastasia fucking Steele is not hiding in my laundry basket, I'm infiltration-free. I throw myself down on the sofa and think.

I try to think.

I try to think about thinking.

But all I can think about whilst thinking about thinking, is her.

And the blood infarction she's about to cause my inoffensive penis. I need to relieve the pressure. But I don't. I've always hated jacking off. I have people for that. I refrain from such base pleasures and begin to think about thinking again. Ok, Grey, time to prove that IQ score. The first point of contention is how does she know I went through her records? Does she have some kind of alert system if her file is accessed? How did she see through my EcoPol bullshit so easily? Why did she act like a dithering imbecile in front of her cohort?

And what will she be wearing during our tutoring session?

Shit.

No, Grey.

Bad.

But good though.

Badly good.

Fuck. I'm fucked.

Would it be so bad to stop thinking and pick up the phone and call her? Sure, I could lose my job. But I hate my job. Sure, she could ruin my reputation if she so desired. But maybe I don't need my reputation. Besides, what kind of girl is going to spread shit about herself as well as her random lay? Maybe I won't be that random however.

I narrow my eyes at myself.

Jesus.

I'm thinking like any base-orientated male. I don't do that shit. That calling the morning after the night before bullshit. So I will be a random lay. And that's fine. Except I don't lay. I fuck. And maybe for all her bravado she's just a scared little college girl underneath it all? My eyes close of their own accord. All I wanted was one peaceable morning without her in my head. And I got her in my head _and_ in my class.

And damn me to hell I want her over my desk.

She's different. She's sassy. Usually I don't _like_ sassy. I like compliant, demure and well-behaved. I like yes Sir, no Sir, three fucks full Sir. But that's not the case with her. Not Anastasia Steele. She's all smart mouth and twinkling eyes and it makes me sick, but I love it. Recovering from the shock, I'm beginning to appreciate the ingenuity behind her ambush. She knew I'd be stunned that she knew a damned thing about me. Knew she was reversing the power vacuum in my own lecture hall.

Fucking madam.

I turn her post-it over and over in my hand. It's not a crime to call her. It's unprofessional, yes. Very. But it's not a crime. Besides, it is my responsibility as an educator to assist a girl who is quite clearly calling out for some additional support. I have an obligation. She needs my help. My academic prowess.

My belt across her ass.

No, Grey, damnit.

Books. Books and learning. Maybe a priest or two. Keep it clean. Wholesome. Fulfil your duty as this girl's Professor and kindly show her on her way. With a warning to keep her mouth shut if she ever wanted to pass my class. I affirm this decision. It's for the best. She's too young, anyway. That's not true. But it makes me feel better and right now, I need to feel better. I need to leave WSU on good terms to branch out into a job that doesn't make me want to drink the fluids from my own eyeballs in the morning.

I'll call her and arrange to meet and let her down gently.

Poor girl.

Wanting me and not being able to have me?

Torture.

Medieval torture.

But it has to be done. For both our sakes. I ignore the slight tremor in my fingers as I input her number into my cell. I'm just having coffee withdrawal. She's put me off my caffeine. She answers on the seventh ring with a sweet and almost amused "Yes, Professor?"

Jesus this is going to be hard.

"Miss Steele. I feel our conversation requires some additional fleshing out. Perhaps you have some time this evening to meet me? I'm free at around-"

"Why not come over to my dorm room now? My roommate is out for the day."

She interrupts me. Interesting. I don't like to be interrupted. As a matter of fact, no one interrupts me. I don't even interrupt me. Yet this maddening girl with the long brown hair and the big blue eyes thinks she's above the rules. I swallow tightly. How I'd love to disabuse the little minx of that notion. A few sharp shocks with a flogger and she'd never open her mouth out of turn again. But then, perhaps, I'd miss her sass.

"You don't have class?"

She laughs at me. She _laughs_ at _me._

Palms are twitching. Palms are twitching so hard that they're burning.

"Yeah, I do. But I feel like cutting. Care to join? Or are you too stuffy?"

My brows are in danger of ascending into my hairline and never returning. This girl is unbelievable. She has just asked me, in the cold light of day, if I am too _stuffy?_ Does this individual have any idea who I am? She seems to think she does. She seems to really think that she really does. And yet, she continues to wave the red flag at a snorting bull. I'm standing up from the sofa before I know it and I feel a sense of purpose burning me. I'll go and let her down gently. That's still the plan. But I think she needs to hear some choice words about the appropriate and inappropriate mannerisms to utilise when speaking to one's Professor.

Outrageous girl.

"I will be there in ten minutes, Miss Steele."

I hang up. I hang up before she has the opportunity to run that smart little mouth any further. I pinch the bridge of my nose and centre the shit out of myself. Zen. That's what I need to become. Like they're always shitting on about in my mother's book clubs. I'll need to be calm when I go over there. I need to stick to the plan. The courtyard is relatively empty as I yet again stride across it. I'm rehearsing this shit in my head. Explaining to her that I am her Professor and she is my student. That any and all relations between us would be utterly inappropriate. I also have every intention of issuing a few blistering words about the folly of cutting one's classes.

That's the responsible thing to do.

I will not touch her. I will not look at her for longer than is strictly necessary and I will not treat her any differently than I would a forty-year old back to education student called Burt. By the time I reach her dorm room I feel like myself again. Controller of my own fate and the fates of those around me. I feel like _Christian Grey._ I knock raptly on the door. I'm even beginning to feel annoyance that my superior and intellectual time is being wasted turning down the unwanted advances of irritating little college girls. I should demand an apology, too. It's the least she can do for causing me so much inconvenience.

When she opens the door my minds wipes clearer than a cloudless sky.

My mouth hits the floor.

There she stands. All five foot and three to four inches of her. A crisp white shirt drapes her slender shoulders. It's unbuttoned and frames her hourglass figure like a dream on steroids. Her black, lacy bra is a stark contrast as it supports her milky and pert breasts. Her matching pair of silky panties frames her tanned and toned thighs like the legs were built for the panties and not the other way around. These are her only items of clothing as she stands there with a sultry smile etched into her petite face. If that wasn't enough, which it was, to cause a major cardiac infarction, what she's holding in her hands sure as shit was. I practically drool. And I'm not one to drool. But shock does strange things to a man.

A thick and elongated wooden ruler.

That she's tapping slowly against the palm of her left hand.

"Professor Grey. Forgive my dress, I was expecting a younger man. I hope I don't distress your heart rate."

Fuck it. Plans were for pussies.

I slowly hold out my hand without a word and she places the ruler into it with a smirk.

I snap the door closed shut with every drop of blood in my body pulsating. I speak in a soft tone and her response is primal. Her eyes widen and her breath hitches. She shimmers with pre-pleasure glow. God save me. I'm going to hell. I'm going there ruined, unemployed and in disgrace. But I'm going there happy as fuck.

"Class cutting is frowned upon here at WSU, Miss Steele."

I tilt my head to drink her in. Every spinetingling inch of her. She's exquisite. Her ass is full and supple. I can die happy as I tap the ruler against my palm and set the tone for the orgasmic plan that I'm creating like a director.

"I think you're in need of an intervention."

…

A/N: This is a super fun break from writing more serious stories so I hope you're all enjoying the change of pace!

….


	6. Chapter 6

"Aren't academic interventions usually a matter for the discipline board?"

His sudden grin was the first time she'd ever witnessed the white light cut through the grey pools of his strange eyes. He was disgracefully handsome. The epitome of human beauty. But there was something almost feral about his amusement and she knew he was a hunter and she, the hunted. The power she had wielded by leading him here was outside the door. This was his wheelhouse, and as his eyes drifted down to the ruler in his hands, she knew she was about to receive a special sort of education.

"Oh, I'm sure this ruler can be a very effective discipline board, Miss Steele. In the right hands."

Goosebumps bubbled under her skin, bursting to the surface of her bared and taut stomach. Her eyes lowered instinctively, but playfully. His grin widened. She was a rare breed. And her beauty in the privacy of her dorm room was even more spinetingling. Her dark hair spilled onto her slender shoulders and her wide, cyan eyes were brimming with selective seduction. All in all, she was worth losing his miserable job for.

"But it's in your hands, Sir?"

His jaw dropped at the bantering impertinence. He waited for the tidal wave of anger to wash out her disrespect. But it never came. It was humour that gurgled inside him, not anger. His lips twitched as he saw her mouth was curved upwards in a cheeky grin. Tapping the thick and strong ruler against his left palm, he had to concede that he may have finally met his match. He walked slowly towards her. Her smell infiltrated him as he passed her petite frame. Clean, with a hint of fruit. He breathed it in as his fingers curled around the satin nightgown that draped her shoulders. As it fell to the floor, leaving her exposed and vulnerable, he slowly padded to face her. Deliberately standing too close, he invaded her space, suffocated her with his proximity.

"Would you like to try that answer again, Miss Steele?"

To her undying credit, she shook her head with the same demure stance.

"No, Professor, I always like to stick with my gut instinct."

"Is that right?" he murmured as he circled her once more. His breath stilled in his windpipe at the sight of her full and barely covered ass. It was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. He trailed the cool ruler over the pert globes and grinned when she couldn't supress the slight shudder that rippled through her tight physique.

"So reactive," he breathed, "Almost as if you know you deserve this…"

The sass bled right through her whisper.

"Who invited who here, Professor?"

He chuckled. The musicality of it surprised her and pleased her in equal measure. He was a conflict. Serious but sexual, unattainable yet present. His light fingers probed the waistband of her panties and she stiffened with apprehension at the electricity that surged from his touch. Her eyes fluttered shut and she leaned forwards despite herself, clenching with desire. His throaty laughter dripped over her once more. He was deliberately throwing her off balance, speaking to her from behind. Pressing his clothed warmth against her shivering bareness.

"Oh, Miss Steele. That was not a very clever answer. That was not a very clever answer at all. I was going to be kind and give you a slight reprieve. I was going to allow you to retain these beautiful panties for another moment or two. But that _mouth._ That smart mouth of yours is going to lead you into trouble you might not be able to handle. Is that what you want?"

She missed not a beat.

"Yes, Professor."

His eyes burned into her back as he drank her in.

"So you think I should take these panties down, right now?"

"I think you're already two days late in taking them down, Professor."

His mouth carved into a grin he wasn't sure he could ever remove. There was a lightness to this girl that was so staggeringly different he couldn't quite process it. No other girl he'd ever had would even dare to think the words she spoke. And with those other girls, he wouldn't tolerate it for a nanosecond. And yet with her, with this enigmatic Miss Steele, every cheeky remark was like a stick of candy at Christmas.

"You're an insolent one, aren't you?"

She shrugged.

 _Shrugged._

His eyes popped like a dislocated collar bone.

"I suppose I just haven't been shown the error of my ways in a while."

A groan nearly tore from his throat. How he wished he could have been there a long time ago to impress upon this little imp the error of her ways. She would have made a diligent student and he, an enthused educator. Which was more than could be said for his tenure at WSU. His grey eyes seared into charcoal black with want. His natural assertiveness surged in him with a strength that nearly choked him as he spoke with a renewed sharpness.

"Today is going to be quite the shock for you then. Right now, you are going to pull those lacy little panties down over those tight cheeks of yours. You're going to pull them all the way down to your ankles and step out of them. You will turn around and hand them to me. Without looking at me and without, and this will be the hard part for you, a word. You will do all the above now, Miss Steele, and you will give that smart mouth of yours a little rest. I assure you that I will find a substantial use for it shortly."

A little snuffle of desire escaped her and he hardened like last week's bread.

She took her sweet time. As he knew she would. Reaching back with her slender fingers, she hooked one at a time through the waistband of her panties and tugged with an evocative wiggle. He bit his lip. Hard. As the lace descended her slender, tanned legs, he clamped down on his lip so hard he tasted blood.

She was fucking exquisite.

When she turned to him, he just about imploded. She kept her head bowed as instructed. But he caught the satisfied smirk when she spied his bulging sack. He reached out and confiscated the proffered panties without a word. His eyes lingered with indecency on her completely hairless and utterly smooth box. Tucking the ruler into the waistband of his jeans and the lacy strip of fabric into his pocket, he placed both hands on her shoulders.

She sizzled under his grasp.

Steering her with an ease of touch that surprised him, he guided her to the unsurprisingly empty study desk in the corner of the room. With a fluid flourish, he divested her of her bra and moaned inwardly when her full breasts spilled forth with a bounce that nearly finished him. She stood stock still as he admired her.

"Do you have any idea how breathtaking you are, Miss Steele?"

Her bent head didn't hide the smirk that played upon her lips.

"Your jeans are giving me a fair idea, Professor."

His brows shot up like a rocket. Sliding the ruler out of his back pocket, he eyed the naked girl with a hunger that he hadn't felt in a long, long time. She was everything he was unused to and everything he didn't know he'd been missing. Tapping the arch of her petite back with the wooden ruler, his voice was stern with strains of playfulness.

"Bend your cockteasing ass over that desk. I want it nice and high."

She didn't hesitate.

Leaning forwards, she fell with her momentum. Her back sank down low as her ass rose high. The cold wood was pleasant against her burning torso. Her freed breasts fleshed out under her weight as his warm, soft hand came to rest on the small of her back. Pushing her down further, restraining her. Controlling her. Her pupils dilated with desire as he tapped the inside of her thighs with her own ruler.

"Spread your legs. Wide. I need to see what I'm dealing with."

She did as she was bidden. Slowly. Deliberately.

He smiled smugly when he saw exactly what he was expecting to see.

"Oh, Miss Steele. What is this? This is supposed to be a punishment. This is supposed to an academic intervention. You're not supposed to be _enjoying_ this. The insides of your thighs shouldn't be slick with your own juices. I can see I'm really going to have to impress upon you the seriousness of this situation. Do you understand me?"

This time, she couldn't prevent the groan from bursting out of her throat.

"Yes, Professor."

He smirked at her strangled whisper.

Gripping the ruler tightly in his hand, he tapped it softly against her ass and thrilled when he felt the firm resistance of well-toned cheeks. They were a milky white and he knew they would pink up beautifully with the slightest provocation. By the time he was finished with her, it would be the most beautiful crimson. He gave her no more additional warning. She was right where he wanted her and he was about to cash in.

The first crack of wood on skin was the sweetest, sharpest high.

The imprint of the ruler instantly popped across her cheeks. A strip of most timid pink stood out against the creamy white. She replied to the strike with the softest groan and parting of her lips. She stayed perfectly in position. Clearly trained and experienced. His restraining hand was not jerked off or misplaced. This pleased and impressed him as he readied the ruler once more.

The second snap of implement on ass was even more delicious than the first.

Her lips parted even further as an encouraging gurgle escaped her. She pushed her ass up even further, crying out for more. The pain was succulent. Like tender meat. Not too little and not too much. It was just fucking right. He answered her bodily cries for more and before long, her dorm room was filled with the sweet song of pleasurable chastisement. He didn't hold back and shortly thereafter; her ass was a burning forest fire of delight.

Cooled only by the secretions that dripped from her sex with impunity.

His own forehead dampened with his joy ridden exertions. The ruler sliced the air again and again and descended upon every inch of her willing and waiting skin. Her cheeks were a deep, blood red and her sit spots would remind her of his presence for days to come. When he sensed she was at the cusp of her tolerance, he leaned forwards and whispered in her ear.

"Are you learning your lesson, Miss Steele?"

She shivered with delightful pain and the closeness of his hot, wet lips.

"Yes, Professor."

Straightening up, he examined his target area and felt pride in his efforts. Placing the ruler down on the desk where she could see it, he returned his bare hand to her smouldering cheeks. The heat was delicious against his cold palms. Where some inches of skin seemed less chastised than others, he spanked with a gratification that astonished him. She yelped for the first time when his wide palm came down with a searing swat upon the meatiest part of her upended ass. Dropping back down to her ear level once more, he murmured softly.

"You took your punishment well. I hope that this esteemed institute will be seeing more of your tight ass in its lecture hall seats. Be reminded, I have no morals about snooping in your files and your attendance is recorded there for all to see. I will know if your class cutting schedule doesn't end here and I will be back. Is that clear?"

As he spoke, he prayed and prayed she would skip every class for the next three years. As she spoke, she had every intention of it.

"Yes, Professor."

They both understood each other and their breathless smirks were in tandem. He didn't remove himself from her ear. Drinking in her scent, he allowed his moistened lips to scratch against her soft earlobes. Relished her resultant quiver.

"I am a firm believer in crime and punishment, Miss Steele. You've committed the crime and received your punishment. But I'm also a big believer in positive reinforcement. Rewards, if you will. You stayed so still and kept that thick ass of yours up so high, that I think you deserve a little pick me up. Would you like that?"

Her mewl was anguished as she nodded vigorously.

"Yes."

His hand reached back and spanked her scarlet ass with rapidity.

"Yes, _what?"_

Her surprised squeak was music to his ears.

"Yes, Professor."

He reached back to rub out some of the sting and spoke softly.

"Good girl."

Her facial cheeks burned as hot as her ass cheeks as the disgusting pleasure pelted her at his words. With many other men, when they'd said those two little words, she'd been irritated by their sugary shit. But when they dropped from _his_ lips, they filled her with the yearning to hear it again. And again and again. That sense of yearning was only intensified when she heard the tell-tale sounds of a foil wrapper being ripped open. Despite herself, her smart mouth took over her brain.

"You're a presumptuous man, Professor."

The swat that cascaded down upon her red butt was playful.

"Pretend I was a boy scout, Miss Steele."

She opened her mouth in retort but the words never came. His hands were suddenly on her breasts, cupping them with an intensity that ought to have been painful. His back was pressed against her torso and his taut abdominal muscles were like rungs of a ladder against her spine. A cry of ecstasy escaped her as he pinched her nipples between his index finger and thumb and rubbed the thin skin between them. His breath was hot and sweet on her neck as he nuzzled against her. Gripping her hair tightly in his hand, he held her down whilst his mouth wandered along the line of her strong jaw.

Her whispered plea was enough to have him reaching for his zipper.

As his member sprang out like the first soldier of an invading infantry movement, she stiffened with delight. Unrolling the condom with an ease he really ought to be ashamed of, he clothed his rock-hard cock with one movement. Clamping a hand on either of her shoulders, he bent her down even lower across the desk and moaned as her pink sex peaked up at him in invitation.

She was wetter than the average tourist at the Niagara Falls.

He dominated her from the moment his bulging dick slipped into her slick lips. Her eyes snapped open in shock at his length. It practically tickled her lungs as he thrust in her for the first time. She was no sexual novice, but she knew then and there that she'd never really been taken before. Not like this. Not like this burning, all-consuming, organ-moving fuck.

He spared her no time to adjust.

She was warmer than he had ever had. She spread around him like she was made for him. Her lips contracted like a machine as he thrust in her, sucking him deeper and deeper into her pipe of pleasure. Her moans were delicate and ferocious. Enigmatic. Just like her. She splintered around him as he rammed her with impunity. Her shapely hips were lifted from the desk as he drove himself deeper and deeper. She pushed herself back into him, desperate to receive every inch of him. He switched his hands to her hips and gripped her skin tighter than tight. She whimpered in delectable pain, intermingled with ethereal pleasure.

Their bodies moved as one before they exploded in tandem.

Her orgasmic cries rebounded off the walls as he emptied his load like a dump truck. His panting chest doubled upon her sweat-streaked back as she fell forwards, utterly spent. Hammering hearts beat wildly in their heaving chests. Gathering himself, he drank in some air and slowly pulled himself out, eyes closing as she released him with a still present tightness. Removing the bulging condom and throwing it in a nearby trash can, he zipped himself up with trembling hands.

A part of her mourned for him as his torso left her.

Standing on shaking legs, she stood to face him with a freshly fucked face that would stay in his mind's eye forever. Her eyes were dark with satisfaction as she gazed at him with every inch of her being still on display. Gesturing at the slight bulge in his jeans pocket, she spoke with an erratic tremor in her voice.

"May I have my panties back?"

His grin was slow and steady.

"May I have my panties back, _what?"_

Her answering smile was seductive and seamless.

"May I have my panties back, Professor?"

Fishing them out and dangling them in front of her, he raised a brow.

"Only good girls get to keep their panties on around me, Miss Steele. Bad girls get their panties taken down and their asses spanked and fucked. You've had one out of two so far. Before I give them back to you, I need to know if you're going to be a good girl? Or if you're going to slip back into your old ways and require some more one-to-one tuition?"

Holding out her hands with a twinkle in her eye, she bit her lip coyly.

"I've spent a long time being a bad girl. A long, long time. There are no grey-eyed, copper-haired perverts where I'm from. So, yes, I may need some additional education on that one, Professor Grey. And I must admit that I approve of your methods. I've already learned a great deal. Are you free next Wednesday?"

….

The End! Seemed a good place to leave them!

Hope you enjoyed,

Inks x

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